


False Dawn

by emmbright



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-10-08
Packaged: 2018-04-25 11:56:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4959724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmbright/pseuds/emmbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place between "3" and "One Breath"</p>
            </blockquote>





	False Dawn

California is fire and ash, the sun blinding and burning even in November. He returns to his cold, dark apartment with the smell of smoke in his hair, crimson lipstick staining his best white shirt, and the taste of ashes in his mouth.

His nose is peeling, sunburned, and he sloughs away pinked skin with the back of his hand before emptying the jumbled contents of his suitcase on the couch.

Another week has passed, and still no sign of Scully.

* * *

In the seconds before Kristen's lips met his, he imagined she'd have the hot, coppery flavor of blood. Instead she was surprisingly cool, tasting of mint and California wine.

Afterwards, when she rose up on one elbow and looked at him, he tried to speak. The only words he could gather were apologies and regrets, however, so he kept silent.

"Do you think you'll find her?" Kristen finally asked. She scratched her red nails through the hair on his chest. She stroked the cross with her fingertips.

He pulled away from her with a sigh and slid out of bed, gathering his clothes from the floor.

"I don't know," he said quietly. "I hope so."

In the eerie false dawn of the fire, Kristen's eyes glittered up at him, dark and full of pity.

* * *

The days creep by, each a little cooler than the last. Soon there will be frost and phony holiday cheer.

He welcomes the early autumnal darkness; it suits his mood and offers someplace to hide. Strangers give him curious looks in the daylight, their gazes darting to meet his, then scurrying away at the crazy glint they find there.

He thinks maybe he is crazy, that Scully was right to call him nuts. To her it had been a joke, only a tiny bit of honest feeling behind the words, but to him it is becoming 100 percent bona fide fact, the kind backed up with proof even Scully would have to accept.

He hears her arguing with him in his head all day long as he reads through files and questions witnesses. Her soft voice counters every new, far-out theory he posits with the scientific explanations and logical reasoning he somehow came to rely on in just a few months. Even if he brushed aside her explanations as often as not, she was always there to keep him grounded and watch his back.

How could she have infiltrated his defenses so thoroughly in such a short period of time? People usually flitted in and out of his life like butterflies, their impact on him as insignificant as the fluttering of wings. A slight shift in the air around him, imperceptible and easily ignored.

Scully, however, is something else altogether, something indefinable and unique in his world, like a rainforest creature never before classified or named. Whatever she is, she has a python-strong grip, choking him with memory and regret.

* * *

"Life's too short to hold grudges, Fox," his mother says on the phone. It takes every bit of self-control he has not to laugh bitterly. "You haven't been to Thanksgiving in years," she continues. "Your cousins would like to see you."

Holidays in Connecticut with his mother and her sister's family inevitably turn bitter and accusatory. Old wounds are slit open with words as cold and sharp as any scalpel, all while the mask of good New England manners stays in place.

Mulder sighs and wearily rubs a hand over his face, closing his eyes against the flickering blue light of the TV, a tape paused in the VCR. "I'm really busy, Mom. Work is--"

"It's Thanksgiving, Fox," she says wistfully. "You haven't been here in so long. Surely you can spare a day."

The thought of hours of meaningless chatter and faked familial goodwill makes him miserable, but there is enough of Fox the Good Son left inside the hollow shell of Agent Mulder to give him a twinge of guilt.

"I don't know," he tries again in a feeble, last ditch effort. "It's hard to make any promises."

He can hear her gentle exhale over the line. "Please," she breathes, and it sounds like the quiet prayers she uttered in the days after Samantha disappeared, before she lost faith and hope.

His hand clenches and unclenches by his side as his own mother's loneliness blurs with thoughts of Margaret Scully spending the holiday without her youngest daughter. At least he can give one woman what she wants.

"Okay, Mom," he sighs. "I'll come."

* * *

He speeds through Alexandria after a Saturday spent chasing a useless lead from the Gunmen. The car radio blares some grunge band music he doesn't recognize, but he appreciates the singer's rage, as self-righteous and impotent as his own. He finds himself turning the volume higher and higher until the sounds of the road disappear and the steering wheel thrums beneath his fingers.

A gray-haired lady slowly pulls out in front of him, just as he's lead-footing it to get through a light before it turns red. Her Skylark's smashed rear fender is evidence of other bad driving decisions.

The seat belt catches him hard as he slams on the brakes and hits the horn with his fist. He can barely hear its ineffectual bleat above the screams of whatever flannel-clad band is playing now, and the old woman looks around, confused, wondering what all the hubbub is about.

The wait is long at this light, and from the corner of his eye he catches the glare of late afternoon sunlight off a cassette tape cover, dislodged from beneath the passenger seat when he stopped. He unbuckles his seat belt and plucks the cover from the floorboard: "Listen and Learn French."

Turning the blue-jacketed box over and over in his hand he realizes that it must be Scully's. It probably fell out of her bag -- that ugly, soft-sided briefcase she always had with her -- the last time she was in his car, almost three months ago now.

Sliding the tape into the player he imagines her doing the same during her morning drives to Quantico. Her pillowy lips forming the strange nasal sounds, her perfectionist struggles to gargle her "r"s.

He wonders why she was learning French. Was she planning a trip? Has some Georgetown travel agent been calling her apartment and receiving no answer about a six day, seven night stay in Paris they'd discussed?

Angry music is replaced by a man's mellow voice as the tape begins, and Mulder turns the volume back down to a less deafening decibel.

Listen and repeat: "Je me suis perdu. Pouvez-vous m'aider, s'il vous plait?"

Mulder listens and haltingly repeats, struck by the meaning behind the words he mouths. Yes, he thinks, I am lost.

He doesn't realize the light has changed until the minivan driver behind him honks three times.

* * *

His sleeplessness is not unusual these days, but a migraine is something he hasn't experienced since he was a teenager. He tosses and turns on the couch but can't get comfortable. Four aspirins haven't touched the pain, and he hopes he won't have to run to the bathroom to throw up.

Scully's mother called an hour ago. That's when the headache began. Memorial service, she'd said with tears in her voice, and something about telling Dana goodbye.

Mulder had been too stunned to protest. He's searched for Samantha for twenty years, and he'll search twenty more for Scully if that's what it takes.

That's what he should've told Mrs. Scully, he realizes, covering his eyes with the back of his arm, trying to block out the white lights flashing before his eyes. That's what he'll tell her tomorrow afternoon when he takes her to choose a headstone.

He'd rather choose his own than give up now.

* * *

California rages with fire, he thinks, flipping the L.A. case folder closed and filing it away, but it's also cool breezes, warm sunshine, and a sky the same clear blue as Scully's eyes.

Once she told him about living in base housing in San Diego, about trips to Disneyland, family games of touch football on the beach, and getting so sunburned she could barely move the next day. About being, briefly, a California girl.

He'd put the necklace in her file's evidence bag after Kristen, but he pulls it out again before leaving the office to pick up Mrs. Scully.

His fingers feel thick and unwieldy as he fumbles to unhook the delicate clasp. The chain is so thin he can barely feel it wrapped around his neck, but Scully's cross hangs above his heart with a light, reassuring weight.

 

end

* * *

Thank you to the lovely Emus who sent encouraging words my way, and to Bonetree, whose request proved inspirational. Many thanks also to JET and Lilydale for kind and helpful beta.


End file.
